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A cool, dry air seems to emanate from the phone line.

A sigh. That's all she can manage just now.

A sigh. That's all she can manage just now.

A casual intimacy to the interrogators' posture, slouched toward each other. They're partners.

Continue, he's saying.

The old spy's grey eyes flash like light reflecting off a rifle scope.

Like something inside has seized control of his vocal cords. A speaking puppet.

His face. Vision of pale horror.

A fresh appraisal. Impressed.

Nothing facetious in his tone there.

No judgment -- only the curiosity of a navigator asking another about her compass.

... mouthing the shapes of the words that fill your ears...

Referring to your obvious lie.

He's not a puzzle. He's a lever.

The posture remains yet the gravity in the air thickens.

No playful jab, no implied wink. He doesn't know you met her.

No attempt at deception here.

There's no threat behind his words. He's simply describing the objective state of things.

He pruned the conversation forcefully, artificially. There is more.

He says it to everyone.

All pretense drops. The red glints in his lenses.

His rising anger gone in an instant, like a fuse being tripped.

His speech speeds up the more he speaks, the external manifestation of a system careening towards a vascular catastrophe.

Totally bloodthirsty.

Suddenly self-conscious.

Shades of Tempo reflected concave, convex, through a hall of mirrors.

More excited than nervous.

A flash of annoyance in her expression.

She's got you there.

If it was a direct order -- yes. Any which way you command.

What she wants to say is: grow a pair.

She is all of those things and more.

The seething -- it overrides any and all underlying emotions.

A twitch under his eye. He masks it with anger but there is real upset there.

No hint of a smile with that one.

Fists clenched, he adopts a strained position against the desk. Everything under his skin tightens.

He offers a limp salute and bows his head.

'It takes one to know one', his expression says.

Take it from somebody who shoots his conscience with a designer drug-loaded dart every time it so much as stirs.

Something childlike and almost innocent enters his tone and gaze.

It's not the drugs. This man was born high.

It's not the drugs. This man was born high.

Jaw jutting out, eyes wild, he's putting himself forward as a candidate.

A small measure of doubt, a hefty dose of fear. You're safe to proceed, for now.

Fresh veins pop in his red eyes. You can almost see the neurons shorting.

Definitely arousal.

He's far gone. And if he was faking it to begin with, he's long forgotten it.

Definitely real.

His left foot twitches in anticipation of the jump.

774 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 15 of 16